


Fluid Sexuality

by Gemmi999



Category: Popslash
Genre: Internal Monologue, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-13
Updated: 2011-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmi999/pseuds/Gemmi999
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Justin was just an idiot and a half for falling for the guy, and okay, fluid sexuality did not translate into slut for any dick, despite what his brain kept telling him. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fluid Sexuality

It wasn’t exactly going according to plan—not that he’d actually thought about what would happen after step 1 and before step 3—but he didn’t think it was supposed to be this fucked up. Normally he would just show up and declare his interest, and whomever it was that was listening would swoon; occasionally they’d have sex but more often they’d laugh at his declaration and treat him like the pussy boy they knew him to be.

Justin didn’t mind, per say, because he knew that in the annuals of the rockstar life this would be barely a footnote: “Justin Timberlake had an obsession with hitting on random members of different bands and then laughing when nothing ended up working out.” Nice and gender neutral, because Justin knew who his main audience was, and knew not to fuck around with the bread that made sure there was plenty of butter.

But, by that same token, Pete Wentz wasn’t exactly a typical person either. Justin was just an idiot and a half for falling for the guy, and okay, fluid sexuality did not translate into slut for any dick, despite what his brain kept telling him. Pete was all about commitment and dedication and perseverance, not necessarily to a person but definitely to the art.

And Timberlake had sold out long ago.

It was weird—he didn’t regret his time with N’Sync for anything. He knew that people considered the whole “brothers” gig to be full of it, and yeah, so he didn’t really talk to the guys all that much now (or ever, once the tour busses were pulling away and the group was slowly disintegrating), but that didn’t mean that the guys weren’t tight. Chris had given him the whole “sex” talk, and occasionally he left a bottle of lube in Justin’s room when his mom still tour with them, because he knew how awkward it could be, buying that stuff in front of a parental figure. And Fatone called occasionally just to leave dirty jokes in his voice mail.

They were tight, but not close, and that was what he had had to sacrifice in order to become where he was now; in order to become the best and the brightest and this fucked up halo should be totally illuminating his way in the dark because Justin knew he was some type of angel.

And then Pete fucking Wentz had the absurdity to turn him down and laugh in his face (but not a real laugh, because that would have been mean, and Wentz didn’t seem to do the bitchy thing too often—at least not and really mean it). He’d muttered something about family and paying ones debts, and Justin knew that it was a slight dig into the fact that his family had sacrificed everything for him to get to where he currently was, and so…

Justin pulled out his trendy iphone and scrolled through the list of contacts, over and over again until he found a name that looked familiar.

“Yo, Bass.” He spoke into the phone, into the recording: “I think I just got my ass handed to me by Pete fucking Wentz, and I thought you’d enjoy hearing all about it. Plus, I kinda miss you and don’t go reading into that, but still. We should hang. Talk to you later, Dawg.”

He hangs up the phone and debates scrolling through the list of numbers again, to find another brother he hasn’t talked to in far to long, but instead he slips the metal into his pocket and grins up at the fading sun (okay, so it’s really just a bunch of lights that temporarily blind him because he’s inside, not outside, inside enjoying the air conditioning).

“Fuck me.” He whispers to himself. “Fuck me.”


End file.
